His hand moves slowly up and down my back, firm and repetitive, grounding me in the only rhythm I can follow. “I’ve got you,” he says against my hair. “You’re here. You’re with me.”
I try to answer. I can’t. The words come out broken and useless. “I was so scared.”
His body goes still for half a second. Then his arms tighten. “I know.”
“I thought—” My breath catches hard. “I thought I’d never see you again.”
His hand slides up my spine and holds there. “I’m here.”
“They talked about me like I wasn’t even there,” I say, and now that I’ve started, I can’t stop. The words come out in pieces, jagged and too fast. “Like I was something they were moving. Something they sold. They called me inventory. They put me under those lights and everyone was watching, and I couldn’t cry because I didn’t want them to have that too.”
A low sound comes from his chest. Not a growl. Not quite. Something worse. Contained pain.
“I couldn’t stop thinking about Eli,” I whisper. “He was on the floor, and he looked at me before they shot him. He said he was sorry, Cobra. He was sorry, and he didn’t do anything wrong.” My voice breaks completely.
Cobra’s hand presses between my shoulder blades, holding me to him. “I know.”
“I feel dirty.” The words come out before I can stop them.
The room goes still. Not because he pulls away. Because he doesn’t. He holds me tighter, so immediately, so completely, that the shame flinches inside me.
“I know I didn’t do anything,” I rush out, panic rising again. “I know that in my head, but I feel it everywhere. I feel their eyes. Their hands. That room. The collar. I feel like they left something on me, and I can’t get it off.”
Cobra’s breathing changes. For the first time, he sounds like he doesn’t know what to do. That should scare me. It doesn’t. It makes him feel more real. His hand slides into my hair carefully, avoiding every place that might hurt, and he presses his mouth to the side of my head. “I don’t know how to fix this,” he says. His voice is rough. Honest. Almost broken. “Violence I know. This…” He drags in a breath. “This is harder.”
Something in my chest twists. Because I know. I know he would rather tear through a hundred men than sit here holding me while I fall apart. Not because he doesn’t want to comfort me. Because this kind of pain gives him no throat to close, no bones to break, no target to eliminate.And still, he stays. Still, he holds me. Still, he asks, “Tell me what you need.”
The question settles over me. Simple. Direct. No assumption. No demand. No control. Choice. He gives me choice.
That’s what makes the answer rise immediately. “I need to forget.”
His body goes rigid beneath me. Not rejecting. Bracing.
I pull back enough to look at him, my face wet, my breathing still uneven, my hands shaking against his chest. “I don’t mean forever,” I say quickly. “I know I can’t. I know it doesn’t work like that.” His eyes stay locked on mine. Dark. Focused. Waiting. “I need you,” I whisper.
His jaw flexes.
“I need your hands. Your voice. Your weight.” My throat tightens, but I force the rest out. “I need you to take it away for a little while. Replace them with you.”
The room goes silent. The kind of silence that has a heartbeat.
His eyes move over my face, and I see the war in him. Want. Fear. Reverence. Rage. Love. All of it at once. “You sure?” he asks.
The question is rough, almost painful.
I nod.
He doesn’t move yet. “Words, angel.”
My chest aches. Even now. Especially now.
He needs me present. He needs to know I’m choosing this.
“I’m sure,” I say. “I want you. Not because I’m trying to disappear. Because I need to feel like I’m myself again, and you’re the only person I trust with that.”
Something in him breaks. Not violently. Quietly. His hand comes up to cup my face, thumb brushing beneath my eye. “You’re you,” he says. “Always.”
A sob catches in my throat again, but softer this time.
